


you could have done so much more (if you only had time)

by TheJGatsby



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-02 00:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5226341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJGatsby/pseuds/TheJGatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was peace, and then there wasn't. She dies in his arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you could have done so much more (if you only had time)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://underbellamy.tumblr.com/post/133344935803/ok-think-about-a-bellarke-prompt-where-clarke-gets) by underbellamy on tumblr. Written all at once, completely unbeta'd, sorry! Title from Hamilton.

The thing that’ll haunt Bellamy for years is how unfair it all is. Not just that day, but… everything. His life on the Ark. Their ill-fated journey to the ground. The delinquents and Mount Weather and Clarke leaving and war and misery and the fact that he only realized he loved her once she’d walked away from him at the gates of Camp Jaha and he was left with a horrible, yawning, yearning pit in his heart where she’d taken a piece of him with her. How he didn’t know when she’d come back, if she’d come back, who she’d be after all they’d done. And when she did come back, and she was different, in a thousand small ways, subdued and distant and perpetually a little bit sad, but… still her, still the same passionate, headstrong, whip-smart girl he’d known, still just as bright and loving and utterly unbreakable, and for a while it felt to him like they’d weathered the storm, like the worst was over and they’d finally get peace.

It felt like they’d have time.

But he should have known better. This was the ground. They didn’t get peace, they didn’t get respite. Everything, everything was now-or-never, every day had to be lived like you could die the next day, and he knew that, but somehow he still managed to talk himself out of telling her over and over again, because what did romance matter when he had her back? Just her presence in his life should have been enough, and it was, it was more than enough, he was ecstatic just to see her in camp every day, to know she was there and she was safe and she wasn’t leaving again, but it didn’t stop him from wanting.

And then war broke out again. The Ice Nation this time. That should have been his clue, should have spurred him into the “If we don’t make it out of this war, you need to know” confession. But it didn’t. Every day he thought about it, and every day he told himself that she was too busy- with healing, now, because she didn’t want to lead them in another war ever again- and it was dangerous, and it wasn’t the right time, and a million other things. Deep down he was afraid that if he told her, he’d lose her, and it’d somehow be worse that way, to get a taste of what might have been. He was stupid. He should have told her.

It was a clear day, and they’d left camp because Clarke needed to forage for herbs, the infirmary’s stores were running low. He went with her, because no one was allowed to leave unarmed or without a guard, and he didn’t trust anyone else to protect her, not the way he trusted himself. So they were wandering through the woods, talking quietly, stopping every once in a while to gently pry a plant out of the soft dirt. It’s the first time in weeks Bellamy’s felt peaceful, and he’s reveling in it, an easy afternoon with the girl he loves.

Then the ambush happens, and they’re running desperately through the forest, Bellamy trying to shove her along and keep an eye on the trees, stumbling through the underbrush. Suddenly a grounder comes flying out of the woods next to them and tackles Clarke to the ground. Bellamy’s stomach drops, and then without thinking he grabs the grounder and throws her back against a tree, cracking her across the head with the butt of his rifle when she hits the ground. She crumples into the underbrush noiselessly, head bleeding, unmoving.

He’s at Clarke’s side in a moment, and the sight of the knife in her side and blood blossoming across her shirt has him feeling empty and panicked, the whole world quieting down to just him and Clarke and the need to get her to safety. So he picks her up, cradling her in his arms, and starts running.

“Bellamy,” she says hoarsely. “Bellamy, stop.”

“No,” he growls in response, “I’ve got to get you back to camp-”

“We’re too far out, we won’t make it back in time. Just- please. Stop.” The pain in her eyes slows him down and he finds a secluded spot, underneath a rock overhang, and lays her down gently, sitting and pulling her into his lap.

“Tell me what to do,” he begs. “How do I help? What do I do?”

“There’s nothing you can do, Bellamy, I’m sorry. You need to go, they’re still after us, you have to get away.” Her breath is quick and shallow, and blood is running freely over the hand she has pressed to her side.

“I’m not leaving you!” he says, voice cracking. “I’m not leaving you here, either we go back together or not at all.” He wraps his hand around one of hers, ignoring the way his stomach churns at the slick-warm feeling of her blood.

“Please, Bellamy.” Tears are flooding her eyes now, and she looks agonized and desperate as she pulls her hand from his and reaches up to touch his face. “I won’t let you die out here because of me.”

“I won’t leave you,” he says, quiet and rough, almost tormented. He covers her hand on his face, turning into her palm. “I won’t leave you.”

“Why won’t you just-”

“Because I love you, Clarke. I’m not leaving you here alone, not like this.” They’re both crying now, and she pulls his face down and presses her forehead against his.

“I love you, too,” she whispers, managing a small, pained smile, and then she leans up and kisses him.

He kisses her back instantly, drinking her in like he’s the one dying, knowing this is it, this is all he’ll ever get, trying desperately to make the most of it. It’s everything he’d let himself imagine and more, it’s the summer sun bursting in his chest and she tastes a little like blood but mostly like Clarke, sweet and airy and light like a perfect spring day, and he commits every beautiful second to memory, etching it into the deepest part of his heart, desperate to keep this moment. And then she pulls back suddenly with a cry of pain, and he looks down to see her hand on the knife in her side, driving it further in and twisting it, and it’s all he can do not to scream at her.

“Clarke, what are you doing?” he hisses, grabbing her hand, but the damage is done, and he can see her fading before him even as he tangles his fingers in her hair, stroking her face and searching her eyes. “Why?” he implores, broken.

“You won’t leave me here, and you need to go,” she says, her voice almost gone, and she turns her face to kiss his palm. “May we meet again.”

“No,” he says, almost a moan, “no, no, no, please Clarke, I’m sorry, I love you, I love you, I’m so so sorry-”

He sees the moment life leaves her, and he clutches her to his chest, pressing his face into her hair with a silent sob.

He carries her body back into camp feeling hollow, covered in her blood.

Her mother screams and he doesn’t react.

She didn’t want to lead them in wartime, but he does.

He’s ruthless and cold in battle.

He makes the Ice Nation regret bringing war on them.

And when the war is over, he leaves.

His heart stopped when hers did, and he’s not sure if it’ll ever start again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://www.thejgatsbykid.tumblr.com)!


End file.
